


Up to Sixty

by Kei_LS



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Frottage, I meant to add Sasuke and failed, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Death, Or maybe just, Premature Ejaculation, That's strictly Canon, also chosokabe and ishida both show up, and then Very Suddenly Not, emotionally oblivious, functionally dysfunctional, i don't know what to tell you other than he's in denial, masamune acts like a starcrossed lover, mentions of war because it's the Sengoku Era, technically!!, these two are star struck and have been pining for years and will continue to do so and it KILLS ME, they light each other's souls on fire, vague descriptions of fighting and confusing descriptions of a car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kei_LS/pseuds/Kei_LS
Summary: Chosokabe Motochika makes a car. Date Masamune's night ends with an intimate encounter with Sanada Yukimura. These two things are related. Because of course it does and of course they are.
Relationships: Date Masamune/Sanada Yukimura
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Up to Sixty

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to Stuck, who has been nothing but incredible and patient and gracious to me even when I very much didn't deserve it. I didn't forget about this - I just finally was able to finish it. I hope it pleases you babe!!
> 
> Also, i didn't follow the prompt. This would have been easier to put into Sengoku Gakuen, and would have made much more sense, but why do I ever make things easy on myself? If Chosokabe can make a fucking boat tank, he can figure out how to make a car.
> 
> All errors are naturally mine.
> 
> Prompt: In a car/vehicle (lol)

“What is it?”

“What do you mean,  _ what is it _ ?”

Masamune stared at the Western Ogre. Turned to stare deliberately back at the monstrosity that might have been a bastardized carriage - if that carriage were a mechanical monster with strange metal and chrome piping, with the same disturbing rolling tread mechanisms that he’d used to turn his  _ warship  _ into a land roving monstrosity. Of peace. And love.

He would literally never understand the pirate’s relationship with Maeda Keiji.

“I told you,” Ishida sniffed. “He’s a simple snake. He’d never understand it.”

Speaking of relationships Masamune would never understand…. “Bold words from a viper,” he smirked. Ishida bristled, and Chosokabe stepped deliberately between them with a put upon sigh that was wholly unearned. Masamune gave him a blank look, displeased, and refused to be mollified by the slow tug of Chosokabe’s mouth into a wide grin.

“I was going to make it as a speed boat,” he admitted, patting the monstrous amalgamation of wood and metal and what Masamune hoped was not leather. “But it sinks. And then there’s no rotation. And that’s how people drown, waterlogged in a sinkin’ coffin, no easy way out. It’s perfect for land, though!”

“Until you’re trapped in a coffin with no easy way out and careening off a cliff,” Masamune deadpanned.

“Can’t be much worse than barrelling headfirst on a horse you attached chrome piping to, can it?”

“I have  _ full control _ ,” Masamune snapped, stiffening in offense.

“ _ No one _ has  _ full control _ ridin’ a horse down a cliffside and holding on by the sheer force of their thigh game,” Chosokabe retorted. Which were some pretty bold fucking words for a man who regularly surfed on a jet propelled anchor - with or without water at hand to skid on if he wiped out. A pale, bare arm slung over his shoulder, jostling him and dragging him in closer - wholly unconcerned with the armor that had to be digging and pressing uncomfortably into his side and against his bared pec because the man refused to go anywhere fully dressed. Masamune shifted his shoulder with a sigh, carefully angling himself more openly to the idiot pirate and giving into more of his general curiosity.

“So it’s a bastardized cart and a carriage and wheelbarrow and it’s not pulled by horses or carried by men?” he summarized. He just barely caught Ishida rolling his eyes, and narrowed his own, but Chosokabe laughed and nudged him toward his latest creation with an excited gleam in his own eye Masamune was loathe to deny.

So maybe he sort of understood the man’s relationship with Maeda.

And that was how it started. Chosokabe, Ishida, himself, and technology of the new age that hadn’t been sanctioned or monitored by  _ anyone _ .

Taking it into battle hadn’t been a conscious decision so much as an impulse, reckless and planned but rushed through means of opportunity. It had done exactly what he’d wanted it to do. Confronted with a monstrous demon, loud and devouring the very earth beneath it, a touch bigger than two warhorses next to each other, most common men fled to escape its disastrous path. Tearing up the enemy from their blind side, making them break file and run, spreading chaos to ensure his own goals: his lifeblood in one stupid crazy fucking reckless demon brought to life under the tender care of an Ogre.

This time it was a retreat, not to steal a head, but the effect was still the same. He endangered little of his own, this way, and didn’t suffer getting herded and consumed by opposing walls of enemies that would just as likely join together to remove the interloper from their midst than turn the battlefield into the brawl he tended to crave.

Such was the non-existent mercy of the War God of Echigo. If it were only Kai he might have tried his chances, but Uesugi would slaughter them. Strange history of failing aside, Masamune knew his chances against the man directly were slim. He’d hold his grudge against the lord to the end of time, but that didn’t mean he thought himself capable of actively crippling him while Takeda lived. Better to let the monsters of the old guard eat each other, and carry out his grievances with the survivors.

It would have been fine. It would have gone  _ perfectly _ . Except he’d forgotten, failed to account, for the single person crazier than himself in the whole of the country.

It was a mistake that corrected itself. Masamune cursed with a growing burn of battle ready anticipation and heat that had him letting go of the ridiculous wheel on the inside of his cramped carriage and reaching for his claws. In near the same moment, the red  _ bastard _ that had planted himself in Masamune’s path charged and propelled himself up through a leap and shove off the ground from his own damn spears and nearly cleaved Masamune in half on  _ impact _ .

His face hurt from the savagery of his grin. The roof of the cart tore off in two messy slashes and one of Sanada Yukimura’s spears sank into the cushion just beside Masamune and anchored into the wood beneath. And there he was, in blazing flesh and heated glory. His hair had fallen over his shoulder like a taunt, a long brown tail that begged for Masamune’s fist to wrap around it wrench that proud head back. Sun kissed skin, tanned under prolonged exposure and hard work, glistened with the sweat of battle all the way from the distracting cut of muscle at his hips to his face. Even his headband was dark, collecting sweat and keeping his hair from sticking to him too horribly, and his second spear gleamed high in the sky with deadly intent.

Masamune met him force for force, caught the length of the spear with one of his claws and surged forward. There’s a whole protective bar of blunted metal that guards the wheel’s delicate inner workings from exactly this type of shit, and Masamune planted his foot on it to get his face directly into the Young Cub’s.

“Masamune-dono!” he yelled, sharp as ever. It marked the first steps of their dance, and Masamune brought up two of his claws on the hand not dealing with his spear, forcing Sanada Yukimura to disarm and then following him with a lunge when he flipped over Masamune’s head to get behind him. He crashed into that bare chest, felt the man beneath him grunt and kept up with the following mad scramble for any blade at all to take control of while they careened blindly onward over the field.

“Sanada Yukimura!” Masamune answered, just as his hand closed around a bare throat and the coins around Sanada Yukimura’s throat gleamed and clinked beneath him. The Young Cub wasted no time with his hand, or an attempt to choke him back, and Masamune snarled when a fist collided hard and forcefully with his face and toppled him hard into the metal front. The wheel jarred his armor painfully into his back, and he hissed at the unexpected added pain of it before Sanada Yukimura followed him down and tried to disable his hands.

Mad scramble. They didn’t roll - no room for that - but they twisted and cut and grabbed and slammed more bodily than they ever had. Cramped space, no common enemy except for each other, no  _ distractions _ save for the hard bounce of the carriage they were careening through the battlefield in and each new dangerous grab for a weapon to determine a victor. That Masamune’s world had narrowed down solely to his own breaths, the rough twist and grab and dull clank of their armor crashing into each other in lieu of their weapons screaming fury, that even the rumble of the ground being torn and mowed down between them was background to his wrestling wasn’t unusual.

He grinned. Lost it quickly when some obstacle was hit and they went careening to the side. Sanada saw it a split second before Masamune did, teeth grit and twisting them roughly - pushing up against the bar of his arm - to plant his spears forward and jam them hard into the floor of the roving vehicle. Motochika would have  _ cried _ , but Masamune had studied the plans put into place to create the monster he’d been given and he jerks his own arm free of the half-twisted pin Sanada had been trying to lock him into in near the same moment, digging his swords deep into the growling engine listened to the screeching snarl as it sputtered to an erratic stop

They’re both still locked together, and the jerky movements are finally enough to dislodge the pair of them and rip the seat with. Masamune has a disjointed moment of nothing but air, and Sanada’s similarly wide eyes meeting his eyes, and then they’re pressed inexorably together and spiraling hard into the bark of the large oak tree they’d been trying to avoid. The jostle is rough enough that he loses all sense of time, his helmet flying off at force and golden crescent digging into the ground. He lost the rest of his swords in the spin, and by the time he lifts himself he wonders if the missile they’d become was finally enough to kill his rival.

Red. Blood, he saw, from the kid’s nose and head. It poured fast, but Sanada’s eyes were open and his cheeks were a deeper red than bright blood that was falling into his hair (the headband had come loose, the coins too - there was no distracting glint of gold drawing the eye to a strong collarbone).  _ Shit _ . Masamune’s limbs still felt like jelly, shaken from adrenaline and vertigo, but he tried to push himself up anyway. Froze at the strangled whimper and deep, hedonistic  _ moan _ that came from under him, and looked quickly back down. Scanned lower, but there were no side wounds, no deep bruises or ugly marks that spoke too obviously of broken bones - nothing sticking out of the skin or broken at a sickening angle.

Except.

“Are... _ you serious? _ ” Masamune blurted. Sanada made a mortified, squeaking choking sound underneath him that would probably haunt his dreams later, but right now only served to further baffle him.

“It’s not my fault,” Sanada yelped. Masamune’s nose wrinkled more in confusion than disgust, and he jerked when Sanada shoved himself up and grunted when a gloved fist landed square on his cheek and punched him to the side. Sanada didn’t waste the chance to roll on top of him, but then stalled out with his fingers digging dents into Masamune’s armor at the shoulders. He could practically feel the force the kid was applying, and he twitched uneasily at being so vulnerable while Sanada stared down desperately and dropped blood onto his cheek and a little bit… terrified. “Masamune-dono, I-” he didn’t seem to have a real follow-up. Just continued to stare helplessly.

Masamune blinked, feeling a strange end to their fight settle over them while something distinctly uncomfortable settled in its place. He wasn’t sure he liked it - this tension filled not-peace between them. He’d rather the yelling and biting and mad scramble for survival.

“You came on me,” Masamune muttered, nonplussed. Sanada made another squeaking, mortified sound above him. Then hauled him up by the shoulders a little and slammed him back down.

“I didn’t!” he yelled, and Masamune blinked as more blood gushed from the kid’s nose and dropped down. If he wasn’t wearing his bracer, he’d probably feel it. At this rate, he was pretty sure the kid was going to pass out and then bleed out. He looked like a nightmare.

His eyes burned, indignant and terrified and fiery passionate - determined to make Masamune understand. And, Masamune supposed, he wasn’t exactly wrong. Technically, there wasn’t a single stain on Masamune at all. The dark, damp patch was strictly in Sanada Yukimura’s court. That thought makes Masamune’s lips twitch, traitorously, despite the fissure of dissatisfaction that accompanies it.

“If that was a battle you meant to wage, you still lost,” Masamune pointed out blandly. Because there was little else he could do, with Sanada above him looking like that and using all of his not inconsiderable force to keep Masamune prone under him. If it were one of his boys, he’d be laughing in their faces and kicking their ass. If it were his generals, he’d be laughing in their faces while  _ Kojuro _ kicked their ass.

With his rival… he snorted. “Bastard. Not a shred of common courtesy in you, is there?”

“No!” Sanada denied helplessly. “That is to say - Masamune-dono please do not - I - I didn’t mean - it wasn’t to disrespect you!” Something in his voice cracked, partway through, and the reluctant humor of his rival letting adrenaline and battle hunger get the best of him in the heat of the moment fizzled quickly, a candle light snuffed out. Sanada didn’t notice - or interpreted it wrong, head bowing down to somewhere around Masamune’s chest. “I - I just - after we were thrown from the contraption I - your helmet came off and I was still - I felt  _ alive _ .”

He gasped as he said it, like he was feeling it again, and when he lifted his head again it wasn’t remorseful, just fierce. Embarrassed, but determined to dig his way through it, with that boundless stubbornness that always made Masamune want to claw his own skin off and take Sanada up on the dare of the death coins around his neck. Masamune would hear him out and understand him whether Masamune wanted to or not.

The  _ presumption _ .

“I had survived yet another insane conflict with you for a moment longer and - and then you were on top of me and your hair fell down-”

“My hair?” Masamune repeated.

“-and with the sun burning behind you it was -  _ gorgeous _ .” What? “You were gorgeous.”  _ What? _ “I saw you, and I knew I was still alive, and you were above me and your helmet was gone and it was so disarming, and- and I…. I couldn’t help it. So I…” he trailed off again, losing steam and gaining awkward humility in its place.

The absolute fucking  _ nerve _ .

“Sanada Yukimura,” Masamune grunted. “You’re bleeding on me and confessing in the same moment after you came in your pants like a fourteen year old brat fresh from the bathhouse.” The indignant choking sound Sanada gave him was a balm on his irritation, and then Masamune inhaled with a sharp, “You punched me in the face to make me listen to you confess.”

“W-well! You were making assumptions!”

“One sentence!” Masamune snapped, knocking the fools arms off of him at the elbow and rolling again with a growl, bringing his face in close to Sanada’s and feeling volcanic at every point of contact. Sanada gripped his arms, vice-like, and Masamune ground himself down with a strangled grunt and frustrated growl. “Bastard. Thinking you can go off like a rocket and then get in a cheap shot on the side? Not with  _ me _ .”

It’s not fury that has Masamune dragging his leg up firmly between Sanada’s, but he feels agitated and frenzied like he might be anyway. As if Sanada Yukimura is the only one to get worked up in a fight. As if he’s the only one that’s aching and hard for  _ hours _ after - did he get impatient and touch himself after their fights? Every one? While Masamune sat stiff and gripping the pommel of his saddle and  _ ached  _ just to remember their moments and recall their fight with lustful clarity  _ hours _ after the fact?

“I could kill you,” he grunted. Sanada shuddered under him, chest bared like a taunt and groaned hard after Masamune bit him. Surrendered under him with a gasped, breathless  _ Oh _ at the rough pass of Masamune’s fingers over a dark nipple that Masamune  _ still hasn’t seen _ because the bastard defies every reasonable law of the land and manages to hide exactly what Masamune wants to see most.

“That would be - ah, unfortunate, Masamune-dono,” Sanada admitted under him. Masamune bit him harder, and jerked his hips down firmly against Sanada’s thigh at the hands that slid desperately into his hair. He allowed himself to be lifted, but only because Sanada was eagerly moving his thigh back and with enough forceful intent that Masamune could melt into the rocking of his leg and feel that pressure tease at his groin and the ache heavy between his legs. And then Sanada makes it better. Makes it worse.

The kiss was lava, molten heat on his tongue and coppery with shared blood and hungry besides. Masamune felt the bruises form and no inclination to stop - just continued to devour and try to melt his way into the furious Young Cub. Felt the tiny fissures of unease, alien tenderness at his head that came from Sanada rubbing circles into his hair, and groaned at the heat it sent straight to his heart. There was no other way for them to be. No other end for them. They would die in heat and emotion and blood. And until then, they’d skirt ever closer.

He wondered if they’d die together.

The thought brought no comfort.

Sanada Yukimura without life was….

Was….

Masamune broke their kiss with a shuddering breath, gasped at the tide of pain that bloomed through his core and wondered if he’d been stabbed in the back. But no - there was no one around, and if Yukimura held a blade it would be - 

The front then. But when he looked down there was no blood in any gap between his armor, and both of Yukimura’s hands were still in his hair, arms stretched up to keep gentle hold of him but allowing the retreat. He throbbed, between his legs, with a need powerful enough to eclipse all of his common sense. He ached, intensely and deeply enough he thought he might shatter into pieces if he so much as swallowed too hard.

Yukimura stared up at him without confusion. A soft, near pained smile on his face, and Masamune perched above him half-frozen and wild in his conflicted emotions, and looked at him like he  _ understood _ . Kissed him again, soft and sweet and alien, and guided Masamune’s hand with his own back down between them.

Hard. Again.

Because Yukimura was  _ impossible _ .

“Together?” he asked impishly. Masamune affixed him with a wild look, pressed his palm firmly and felt Yukimura seize and arch into him. He pressed forward fearlessly into Masamune’s touch, groaned with his throat and flushed all over again. Masamune tasted blood, and the heat of adrenaline, and rolled his hips deliberately.

Yukimura clawed at him in turn, removed the bulkiest and loosest parts of his armor and shifted his leg to make Masamune lift up or crush his balls, and dragged his teeth restlessly across his jaw. Masamune huffed, amused at the small dissatisfied growl he just barely heard as Yukimura’s hips jerked unsteadily, and reached up himself to remove the neck guard.

He didn’t need to wonder why Yukimura wouldn’t remove it himself. Of course he wouldn’t. He knew exactly who had worked so tirelessly to give it to him, and what it represented. Protection. Love. Loyalty. Duty - both honor bound and born simply from…

“Idiot,” Masamune muttered gruffly, letting the engraved metal drop to the dirt beside them while Yukimura stared hungry and surprised and adoringly at his throat. “The guard’s not for you.”

Yukimura didn’t manage to nod. Masamune let his hair get tugged gently, followed the motion until he was baring his throat and sparking at the feel of Yukimura’s mouth on his skin, teeth latching on and sucking rougher than some of his damn punches.

_ I feel alive, too _ .

It’s all too much heat. Too much lust and need and admiration and Masamune might’ve held out longer, if it weren’t Yukimura. Might have managed to breathe around the need, if it weren’t the man that gorged on his drive and passion like others did on food. If it weren’t  _ Sanada Yukimura in his glory _ . With every line of his body screaming his pleasure, his want, his desire - for Masamune.

The boy really was going to kill him one day. But until then - Masamune grunted and jerked. Pressed Yukimura’s head stubbornly closer and shifted his own hand to grab the bastard’s hip and drag him in. Yukimura welcomed him with a bite and bloom of pain on Masamune’s shoulder. Made a sharp, hungry noise against his skin and shifted his knee to the side and the pressure against his dick is too much, has him grinding and rutting against Yukimura’s thigh with animalistic abandon and Yukimura shuddering and seizing up against him in a slow sensual roll that’s impossible to recognize but Masamune knew meant he’d found his release again all the same.

_Crazy._ _Impossible_.

They don’t separate, just collapse. Masamune breathes hard, and his heart burns like it had that very first night on the hill. Yukimura stared back, hazy with heat and pleasure, satisfied not like his namesake but the one he’d come to adopt and wear all on his own someday. Before him, laid the Tiger of Kai. In a moment, Masamune can see it - his rival fully realized and dangerous, with his own dream of the country painted in his eyes and taking the earth into his hands to make it reality. One inherited. One created.

Hunger pulsed, heavy and hot, in Masamune’s throat. Salivating at the thought, the challenge, all wrapped up in the rival that had claimed him and thwarted him all in an instant of clashing blades. He shut his eyes, the war too close and too far, and trusted that Yukimura’s gravest offense in the face of such an absurd action would be simply to stare.

Heard Yukimura make a soft sound, and listened to the rustle of his movements, the tentative press of fingers very lightly against his own. Felt when his rival settled, and knew in his bones that Yukimura had taken up a strange watch for him.

There was no other truth to be shared. At that moment, Masamune trusted and belonged wholly to Sanada Yukimura.

And all thoughts of Sanada Yukimura led only to one:

_ Mine _ .


End file.
